


The Moon is Round, Like a Waffle

by Rollingjules



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Horror, Explicit Language, Inspired by Photography, Lunar Eclipse, M/M, Mentions of Other Voltron Paladins, TrickOrSheith, Werewolf Keith (Voltron), Werewolf Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollingjules/pseuds/Rollingjules
Summary: Keith works at a highway Waffle House. There’s plenty of tourists in town hoping for a good view of the total lunar eclipse. Keith doesn’t give a shit, really, he just hopes they tip.By the end of the night, he’s got slightly bigger problems.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 93





	The Moon is Round, Like a Waffle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 2 of Trickorsheith, Trick side prompt Classic Monster! This fic was entirely inspired by a very atmospheric photo someone sent me as part of a meme, of [a Waffle House during a full lunar eclipse.](https://twitter.com/lioslegbelts/status/1317623337514926080?s=20) Don't forget to hit up @trickorsheith or the #trickorsheith feed to see everybody's fantastic work!! This is the first of three fics I'm posting for trickorsheith week, but it's ironically the last one I wrote! I hope you like it, and shoutout to all my fellow service industry people who have to put up with unreasonable customers on the daily.

The grill sizzles with the sound of bubbling cooking oil and crackling sausages. Keith feels like shit, but it’s not the heat of the grill or the smell of burnt batter in the waffle iron that’s done it; he always feels like shit once a month. It never fails.

It’s packed, for a Monday, tourists crammed into tables and at the counter chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Phones are out, road maps planned, research about the “best filter” is being done at the table. The good weather for viewing the full lunar eclipse has brought people from up and down the interstate, and on one hand he’s grateful for the extra hours but on the other, it’s so much more _people_. Keith carefully passes one of his servers, Lance, a cup of hot water for the snobby rich-looking white family to boil all their silverware in.

 _If they were so worried about it_ , Keith thinks darkly, _they could have brought their own fuckin’ dishes._

While his oncoming migraine hates the extra noise and loud conversations pounding directly into his skull, he grits his teeth and bears it in hopes for the light at the end of the tunnel when tips get split. Hopefully there’ll be some extra cash for his trouble. It’s only for tonight, but at the rate they’re going it’s not shaping up to be an easy one.

Someone has sent back their burger twice already, complaining at first that it was tough and flavorless – _you asked for well-done at a Waffle House_ , Keith had thought, _it’s not exactly_ _filet mignon_ – and then that it was too raw after he remade one rare at the picky eater’s request.

As he flips all three waffle irons in quick practiced succession, the sound of someone tapping on the counter behind him breaks through his slight brain fog.

“Hey, I said _excuse me_. How long will we be waiting for our order? It’s almost time for the eclipse to start.” The man is loud, and his voice drips with ‘armed with semiautomatic one-star Yelp reviews, fire at will.’ Keith schools his face into the closest thing he can get to neutral before turning away from the grill. Pidge is on her 15, and Romelle won’t be here for another forty-five minutes; Lance picked a great time to take a bathroom break.

Keith makes a show of slowly washing his hands at the sink as he faces the man, his fake vintage vegan “cruelty-free” leather jacket and Truman Capote glasses marking him unmistakably as an Instagram “image stylist.” He keeps his distaste for posturing and expensive faux-thrift tastes to himself, though, since after all he _is_ still on the clock.

“I’m sorry for your wait, sir. The second set of waffles is almost ready, and then your plates will be right out. The eggs should be just about done, I made them last so they’d still be hot and fresh when the waffles come out.” He’s picked up a thing or two about customer service, mostly against his will, from Lance. Keith can’t deny that it does come in handy at times like this.

“Seriously? We haven’t even gotten coffee yet. That guy just sat down and he’s already eating!” Bigtime Influencer jerks a thumb over his shoulder to the corner where a broad-shouldered man is quietly eating as he looks out the window into the night.

Keith hates it when people do this. It’s basic common sense, but he’s long known that it has a knack for dying explosively sometime between “I thought the customer was always right” and “I want my money back.”

“Well sir, it says here on your order slip that your group asked for everything to come out together, even your drinks. Lance is brewing a fresh pot of coffee right now, actually, so it’ll be coming out to you with the rest of your order.” He doesn’t validate the part about the other customer with any attention.

“Why did he get served first then? We’ve been waiting longer!” He’s loud enough now Keith’s pretty sure most of the Waffle House can hear him. Lance better be expelling his entire colon right now at extreme personal suffering, because Keith won’t forgive him for making him handle this one by himself when he knows Keith’s skull is practically splitting open.

“Since you requested everything be brought to the table at the same time, I’ve had to stagger what I make so nothing sits around. Everybody in your party of six ordered waffles, and we only have three waffle irons. I’d be happy to bring out the rest later, if you’re all hungry now.” Keith’s not feeling very charitable, and he’s sure it shows in his voice, but he’s two steps away from shoving his apron down this guy’s throat; making sure that doesn’t happen is quite frankly using up _all_ of Keith’s charity.

“That wasn’t what I asked, are you stupid? You let him cut in line!” The man’s hands are on his hips, and Keith’s not sure if he’s actively _trying_ to make himself look larger or if he’s just one of those people who puffs up when they get angry.

“He ordered a black coffee with a plate of fried eggs and two sausages, sir, since your instructions were to-”

The man cuts Keith off before he can finish. “I’m not paying for this, we’re not paying for any of this! You stupid backwoods rednecks don’t know shit, I bet this whole place is crawling with roaches! Did he even wash his hands when he came out of the bathroom?!” He rounds on Lance, whose timing is as fortuitous as it is unfortunate. Keith’s happy for an extra person to help dilute the assholery, but at the same time he doesn’t like seeing his coworkers get a ration of shit from customers either. As Lance approaches, straightening out his uniform shirt and his MANAGER nametag, he puts on his best winning service industry smile.

“Oh don’t worry, sir, I’d be happy to use the sink out here too if you’d like to see! We’ve got plenty of soap right here.” Lance sails over to the kitchen sink and squirts too much soap into his hands, smiling serenely as he works up a frothy lather and does a full thirty second interpretive dance of hygiene with his soapy hands.

“Are you making fun of me? Is that what you hillbillies do for fun out here in the sticks, make fun of people spending their hard-earned money in your shithole excuse for a town?”

Keith grips the kitchen side of the counter with both hands to keep from shouting back or worse. There’s tempting bottles of syrup and ketchup ripe for the throwing, but he knows he shouldn’t… There’s some kind of sound then, a few quick krik-krik-kritch sounds in quick succession.

It takes Keith a moment to realize it was the sound of his nails piercing the laminate of the counter.

The waffle irons are going off, beeping loud and insistent like nails driven right into Keith’s brain. He dimly registers that it means no one probably _heard_ the counter cracking, but he can’t process _why_ it might be bad that it happened. Or that it happened at all. He sways a little on his feet, unable to hold back a little groan of queasiness as nausea rolls through him suddenly.

“Will you shut the fuck up over there? I’m trying to record the eclipse!”

“Oh my god this is just like that old vine, can I PLEASE get a waffle!”

“Honey, let’s just take the kids to McDonald’s instead.”

Keith’s skin is simultaneously crawling and on fire. He tears one hand away from the counter, little bits of speckled laminate falling from his nails, and scratches at his other forearm urgently. It feels like every bone in his body is snapping in half at once and curling tight like a spring. He scratches and scratches, the skin tearing under his sharp nails, but it gives him no relief. In frustration he grips the counter harder, and with a deafening CRACK! a whole chunk of it comes away in Keith’s hand entirely.

Across the Waffle House, there’s a soft gasp of “ _oh fuck_ ” and the sound of a ceramic mug hitting a table and spilling coffee everywhere.

Lance seems to be focusing on getting the asshole to leave. Keith is staring at his hand, still tightly gripping the particle board lined with cheap aluminum siding. _How did that get there?_

“I’ll be happy to discount your meals for you if you like, sir, I’ll take a percentage off for your whole party. How does that sound?” Lance asks, trying in vain to distract from the chunk of furniture in his cook’s hand. His eyes are wide and his smile is nervous.

“Oh my god, is he high? Is he seriously high right now? I’m calling the health department – no, I’m calling corporate! Give me the number for your corporate office!” An expensive cellphone suddenly appears in his hand, as if he can brandish it threateningly like a weapon. He begins to narrate pulling up Google Maps and leaving a negative review for their location, but the destructive satisfaction on his face makes him look more like a man excited to launch a nuclear missile. Keith wants to rip his face off and drown him in used fry oil.

“Letting a fucking _junkie_ cook our food, no wonder they call it Awful House.”

Something inside Keith snaps then. He swears he can hear it, like a million tiny rubber bands pulled too tightly and springing apart with all the force of a gunshot. He slams his hand, counter piece and all, down onto the raised partition separating the kitchen side from the dining side. He doesn’t notice the crater it leaves underneath.

“ _Get out of my fucking kitchen before I rip your fucking guts out, shitheel_.” Keith _seethes_ , snarling around his fangs. He’s so angry, he knows he shouldn’t be doing this but it feels so good, so _right_. He feels liberated. He needs to get this challenger out of his territory, this is _his_ space, _his_ food and pack to protect.

He’s about two seconds away from jumping across the counter when a loud growl and a high-pitched scream of terror break through Keith’s fury. At the quiet man’s corner table, there’s no man to be seen. There’s a large white wolf, hackles raised, standing on the small table. He, and somehow Keith knows it’s _he_ , snaps his powerful jaws at the patrons, and those who hadn’t left during the verbal blowout are sure as hell getting out now. A frantic cascade of people pours out from the glass doors, tripping over each other and themselves to flee to their cars and RVs.

Lance is slowly reaching for the fire hydrant they keep under the kitchen counter, as if to fend it off with the foam spray. Just when Keith feels like he’s finally getting a handle on lucidity, the smoke detectors start going off. He realizes too late that not just the waffles, but the eggs and bacon have been sitting on the grilltop for way too long. The shrill alarms and the flashing lights are hell on his senses, the smoke acrid in his nose and lungs. He stumbles to his knees, fingers digging into his scalp as he clutches his head and howls in pain.

It starts in his head, and fills the rest of him like blood rushing everywhere at once. It’s the worst kind of pain he’s ever felt, like being dipped in acid and suffocated slowly. His every cell feels like it’s exploding and flaying him open, and everything is suddenly _too much_. The screaming, the crashing of broken plates and clanging dishes as people run for the door, he can’t handle it. Plus the other wolf is there, still menacing in the corner, and although Keith doesn’t feel directly threatened himself it’s too much in one spot. He needs quiet, he needs safety.

The woods behind the building flash in his mind then, and he knows where he needs to be.

He clears the counter in one strong leap, ignoring Lance’s stunned yelp and shouldering his way past the still-swinging door. He’s free in an instant, the quickly-cooling night air a balm to his battered heart. He still runs though, because he feels it, the desperation of needing to move. The forest is alive, singing with sound. Everything from falling leaves to rustling squirrels and beetles, he hears it all. And the peaty smell of decaying leaves, the dirt he kicks up when he runs, the crisp smell of pine barrens, it’s all alight in his nose and he _loves_ it.

His claws catch on a rock, and he lifts his hand to his face to inspect it only to realize it’s a _paw_ , not a hand. He looks around desperately, searching for any sign of the dark wolf at the end of it, but as he backs up with all his legs he – he’s got _four_ of them.

 _What the fuck_ , he tries to shout, but it comes out only as a weak yelp. Like a confused dog, he whines and it sounds pitiful even to his own ears.

 _I thought people didn’t turn into werewolves unless it was a_ full _moon._

He panics and paces, but… he’s also exhausted suddenly. He feels worn out and sore, and all he wants to do is go to sleep. Keith ponders his next move for a few moments, just standing quietly on four strange legs and hoping nothing notices him. It _is_ nice to be in the forest again, though, it’s a familiar and reassuring place like an old friend, beside him as he grew up climbing trees and turning over rocks.

The wind and the creaking of the trees calms his nerves. _I’ll figure it out,_ he decides, _I just hope I’m not naked when I turn back. …_ If _I turn back._

As Keith pads experimentally through the woods on his new quadrupedal toes, he hears a rustling from behind him, back the way he came. He whips around as fast as his wobbly wolf legs will allow. It could be another predator, or worse, Animal Control. Did Lance see him turn into a wolf? How will he explain?

He prepares to bare his teeth, wishing he knew how to puff himself up and make himself look bigger like the asshole from earlier or any other posturing creature. He tries a snarl. It comes out hoarse and awkward, but it’s the best he can manage. It’ll have to do. If he has to run, he’s ready for it.

The rustling gets closer and closer, and just as Keith prepares himself to have to try barking, a boxy object pushes through the low branches of a nearby evergreen. He recognizes the shape and the frosty smell of freezer ice.

It’s a box of frozen Waffle House sausages.

It’s also being held in the muzzle of the big white wolf from the restaurant.

Is he here to claim territory? Does he want Keith to leave? Did he just come for a box of sausages???

The wolf opens his jaw, dropping the sausage box softly on the forest floor. Keith stares, wary, but the wolf only backs up and sits back on his haunches, watching from a safe distance. When Keith makes no move on the sausages, he snorts and paws at the ground. Keith has no idea what he wants, or how to ask. He doesn’t _smell_ angry, just interested. Maybe concerned. His eyes are drawn to the wolf’s front legs, one of which is perfectly normal for a large apex predator, furry and white with paw pads tinged brown with dirt. But the other is almost ethereal, softly glowing like moonlight through swirling mist.

_…I don’t think this is a regular wolf._

The wolf stretches then, long and languid with a whiny yawn, and Keith’s lupine eyes widen in surprise when the wolf in front of him stands up on his back legs. Before he can think to even move, though, the white hair twitches in a nonexistent breeze, suddenly receding back into his skin. His body stretches and stretches, and shoulders broaden out, front and back legs elongating into decidedly more human-looking limbs. His ears draw back into his head along with his snout, and after a few moments of stomach-turning pops and snaps the creature standing there isn’t a wolf at all:

It’s the quiet man, from the corner booth of the restauraunt, who put six creamer cups and four pink sugars in his black coffee while Keith was passing Lance his plate of sausage and eggs.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly. He smiles, a gentle look with no teeth. The man looks more ragged than he did inside, but he smells friendly, not malicious.

Keith stares, snuffling at the air to try and figure him out. _Stranger_.

“I guess you’re pretty freaked out right now, huh. I know I would be. But I brought you something to eat, I bet you’re hungry. I, ah… Sorry I couldn’t heat them up first, but I think you’ll like them just fine all the same.” His smile goes lopsided, a little sheepish. Keith can see fangs, but he knows they’re not bared to threaten him. Something about him feels like safety, like confidence.

Keith still takes a moment to circle him cautiously, checking the shape of his pockets and waistline for any sign of a concealed weapon. This might be his first time sizing somebody up as a wild animal, but he still knows what to look for. The thin cardboard box shows no signs of tampering, apart from a slight wet spot and some crumpling where a wolf carried it halfway up a mountain.

“No funny business,” the man promises, holding up both hands. “I remember feeling like I was starving the first time I shifted, so I thought… but if you don’t want them, I understand.” He smiles, gently again, like he really does understand.

_Who says ‘funny business’ under the age of 65?_

He’s always had a good sense of when people are lying to him, and he feels like this stranger is telling the truth. So Keith slowly trudges over to the box, trying to bend down but ending up flat on his furry stomach. If he whines with embarrassment, it’s his business.

“Ah, shit, I should’ve opened it for you. Do you mind if I just..?” He reaches out with his right arm, which Keith notices is a gleaming prosthetic. It looks fancy, and expensive, but it smells like something Keith doesn’t recognize.

Keith grumbles, a huff flapping out between his lips, and stays where he is on the ground. He’s exhausted all of a sudden, as ready as he was to put up a fight he doubts he’d be very threatening right now if he tried.

“I’m Shiro,” the man says while he tears the box open, fishing out the bag of sausages inside and ripping that open too. “I was on my way up the 95 to meet some friends of mine, but I got sleepy behind the wheel so I pulled over for some coffee and something to eat. I guess I’m glad I did,” he says thoughtfully, his lips curving around a sweet smile.

Keith’s met a lot of people who smile a lot, but most of them are hiding something. He doesn’t get that feeling from Shiro. It feels more like he’s got a lot on his mind, and instead of keeping it a secret it’s like nobody’s asked. As worn-out as he looks, Keith feels like that might actually be the case.

“Oh,” Shiro laughs, tossing Keith a thawing sausage link, “I guess you might be pretty tired yourself. How about we talk more after you eat something? I can probably walk you through changing back, might be a little easier than talking like this.”

Keith is almost woefully familiar with the appropriate texture and smell of frozen Waffle House sausage. It’s his job to ensure they pass muster before they leave his kitchen. It’s clear they haven’t been… he’s not even sure what he was expecting, poisoned? Injected with rabies vaccine, like raccoon treats? He scarfs it down in one bite, and Shiro keeps lobbing more his way as he sits down on a rock.

He goes through the entire box before Keith starts feeling better. He never really cared for their sausages, personally, but right now he can’t understand how he didn’t see the appeal. If they’re this good half-frozen, _god_ what they must be like properly cooked.

 _Is this how Kosmo feels?_ he asks himself, feeling slightly embarrassed. He’s being fed treats like a house pet.

“Alright, how are we feeling? Better?” Shiro folds up the empty cardboard and stuffs it in his jacket. Keith is impressed he didn’t toss it aside into the woods. He must notice Keith looking, because he chuckles and explains.

“Oh, I’m gonna need this just in case. I’ve got some people I can get in touch with about smoothing the situation over back at the Waffle House, but it might be handy to have some ‘evidence’ on hand if we need to leave it someplace conspicuous people can find.”

That brings up way more questions than it answers, honestly. Keith will just have to stick a pin in that for later.

Shiro talks Keith through reversing his transformation like a seasoned professional, and for all the ease he slipped back into his human form maybe he is. He has the practiced steadiness of someone who’s taught the same thing before, though Keith wonders who would even be around for him to teach. At Shiro’s suggestion, they jog back through the woods, and though Keith paid absolutely zero attention to where he was headed as a scared wolf, Shiro seems able to retrace their steps until they’re close enough to Keith’s regular jogging spots he can take the lead from there. They pause at the edge of the woods, out of sight just inside the treeline, and assess.

“I can’t see much from here, but I don’t see any police cars. That’s good,” Shiro mutters with a nod to himself.

Squinting, Keith thinks he can make out Lance on his cell phone in the front seat of his beat-up Honda Civic. “Fuck, I think my manager is calling Regional.” It wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but Keith will miss the steady income. It’s not everywhere he can walk around dead on his feet once a month and not get fired, and jobs are pretty hard to come by in their little highway pitstop town. But before Keith can get too anxious about his rent or his electric bill, Shiro is quick to reassure him.

“I think I can take care of that part.” He places a steady hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Let me make a couple of phone calls here, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

Keith gapes. “What should I tell him when he asks about the giant fucking wolf appearing at our corner table?” _And me tearing the counter up,_ he adds mentally.

Shiro looks down at Keith’s forearm, which is still scratched up and covered in dried blood.

“Tell him you have no idea either, because that much is true. You really didn’t. But… hm, for now, tell him you ran out and climbed a tree to get away from it. Hang on, let me do this first.” He reaches up, snaps a few twigs off a pine branch, and carefully places pine needles and twigs in Keith’s hair and clothes.

“There. Now it looks like you had a rough night,” he jokes, unable to keep in a little laugh. But Shiro is absolutely gorgeous and it felt nice to be fussed over, so Keith will allow it.

“What about you, though?”

“Oh, me? I was in the bathroom when I heard screaming and smoke detectors, so I snuck out the back door. The fire alarm was going off anyway, they’ll never know the difference.” The wink he adds on is just for Keith, and it’s a good thing he’s leaned up against the trunk of the tree or he might be swooning.

“Hey, Shiro?”

“Yeah, Keith?”

“Thanks. For all your help.” Keith rubs his sore forearm, a small smile tugging one corner of his mouth.

Shiro laughs, but his smile is nervous. “Don’t thank me yet, there’s a lot more we need to talk about before you can be rid of me.”

“Eh, I’m not worried. I survived tonight, didn’t I? You got me this far, who else am I gonna talk to? The _internet_?” Perish the thought.

Shiro’s laugh is heartier this time, and it reaches his tired eyes with a glint of mischief. He pats Keith on the shoulder again before pulling his phone out, tapping away as Keith walks down out of the woods.

Lance spots him walking toward the parking lot and waves frantically. He throws his door open and moves to launch himself out, but he’s apparently buckled himself in for extra safety. He disentangles himself before hopping out of his car and running to him.

“Keith! Buddy! I thought you were wolf bait! Are you- oh my god what happened to your arm?”

Keith looks down at his own arm, trying to seem surprised. “Oh, I hauled ass. Climbed a tree, wolves can’t climb very high and I know the woods so I figured it would be safer than waiting around.”

“And you left me there? To die horribly, alone? _In our Waffle House_?”

Keith starts dusting the twigs and pine needles off of him. “You got legs _and_ the keys to the bathroom. Obviously you were fine.”

“Damn right I do, these legs won the Clayton County-”

“Track and Field Championship, I know.” It’s not as if Lance ever lets them forget it.

“Exactly, these beauties could hitchhike all the way to Hollywood if they wanted to. Oh, I told Romelle not to come in. I don’t think we’re taking any more orders anytime soon.”

“That’s great, ‘cause I need a drink,” Keith groans in complete honesty.

Lance wilts, flopping against him like a pool noodle. “Oh my _god_ tell me about it, I want to forget tonight ever happened!” It’s the best news Keith’s heard all night.

He spies Shiro coming out of the corner of his eye, and Shiro gives him another wink so quick Keith almost thinks he imagined it. Somehow, as buck-wild as tonight has been, Keith can’t help but feel like things are going to turn out okay for him. At least in the werewolf respect. The job? There’s no telling. But if Shiro’s planning on sticking around, maybe he can convince him to introduce him to other people like them.

Feeling his social charity come back into his body, he slings an arm around Lance’s shoulders and nods slowly. “I think that can be arranged.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, I love hearing from you! This was a laugh and a half to write, I keep picturing giant wolf Shiro running through a dark forest with a box of frozen breakfast sausage in his mouth and laughing to myself lmfao. You can find me on twitter at @lioslegbelts, and more Halloweeny sheith works at @trickorsheith!


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